Chapter 2
Quentin had told me he’d be out of town for a business trip.
“Just a couple of days,” he said, pressing a calculated kiss to my forehead–the perfect doting husband act. “I’ll miss you.”
I smiled, my lips curving in the way he liked, and waved him off as his car rolled down the driveway. The moment it disappeared from sight, I closed the door, locking it behind me, and got to work.
The past few days, I’d been watching him. Studying him. Learning his habits, the way he protected the things most important to him. It didn’t take long to uncover the safe, concealed behind a generic landscape painting in his office.
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The code? Laughably predictable. Delilah Starling’s birthday.
The faint beep of success was followed by the sharp click of the lock opening on my first attempt.
Inside, it was exactly as I’d expected- precise, deliberate, sickeningly organized.
At the top of the pile were documents from the hospital: binding agreements for organ donation, detailed surgical records, and formal paperwork showing his explicit authorization of my mother’s organ transfer to Delilah’s sister.
A familiar burn gathered behind my eyes, but I shoved it down. I couldn’t afford to break
now.
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Beneath the medical files was a string of financial records. Transactions meticulously categorized, payments sent under false pretenses. Business expenses, the receipts claimed. But I wasn’t that naïve anymore.
My hands shook as I flipped through them. Jewelry. Luxury vacations. Designer wardrobes. Each item, each trip, each purchase had been for Delilah. But he hadn’t stopped there. Another heartbreaking truth. lay in the second stack of receipts: the gifts he’d given to me. The necklaces, rings, and dresses I’d once cherished as signs of his devotion–they were laughable tokens compared to what he showered upon her.
Somehow, it hurt more than I’d anticipated. A weight settled in my chest, suffocating and raw. The reality hit me harder than I expected. I was nothing to him. Never had been. I was just… a placeholder. A
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convenient decoy to conceal an obsession he never intended to leave behind.
I sank to the floor, surrounded by the evidence of his lies. For one fractured moment, the tears broke free, hot and bitter as they streaked down my cheeks.
But then… I clenched my fists.
No more. I was done crying.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, pulled out my phone, and meticulously began documenting everything. The hospital agreements. The payment records. The damning receipts. Every single detail.
Near the bottom of the safe, tucked neatly into a corner, was a folder labeled Future Assets. My breath caught as I studied its contents: real estate investments, property
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deeds, insurance policies. I captured those too.
When I was done, I replaced everything with careful precision, leaving no trace of my intrusion.
And then, without sparing a single glance backward, I left the house.
The lawyer was next on my list.
When I walked into his office unannounced,
he glanced up, startled. “Mrs. Brooks! I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I need a divorce agreement” I said, my voice steady, cold.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Does Mr. Brooks-”
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“No,” I interrupted sharply. “He doesn’t know. And I’d like to keep it that way. For now.”
He hesitated, the hesitation thick in his silence. Then, with a resigned nod, he pulled out a folder and slid it across the desk. “We’ve already drafted a template. All that’s left is your signature.”
I skimmed the contents quickly. Every section was clean, airtight. The moment I reached the bottom of the page, I signed my name without wavering.
“Send it to him after I’m gone,” I instructed firmly. “Not a minute sooner.”
“Gone?” His confusion deepened.
But I had no intentions of explaining. I stood, clutching my bag, and walked out without another word.
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My next destination was far less polished. Tucked deep in a nondescript alleyway, the building looked as though it had been forgotten by time. The faded sign above the door was almost illegible, but I knew I was in the right place.
This was where people like me went to disappear.
The door creaked when I pushed it open, releasing a stale smell of cigarettes and damp paper. A hooded man sat behind the counter, his expression unreadable as his dark eyes flicked toward me.
“You lost?” His voice was rough, skeptical.
“No.” I dropped the word like a stone. “I need your services.”
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He leaned forward slightly, studying me. “What kind of services?”
“I want to disappear,‘ I said, my resolve unshaken. “Completely.”
His brow lifted, though his eyes narrowed with intrigue. “You sure you understand what you’re asking for?”
“I do.”
His lips curled into an amused smirk. “And what makes you think I can help?”
I reached into my bag, pulling out the thick stack of cash I’d prepared. Crisp, unmarked. It landed on the counter with a satisfying weight.
His smirk grew wider. “Now we’re talkin‘.”
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He gestured for me to follow, leading me into a back room humming with machinery. Monitors covered every inch of the walls, flickering with grainy feeds and digital maps.
“Here’s the deal,” he began, his tone turning clinical. “You choose the method. Car crash, drowning, overdose–whatever fits. We stage it. Make sure it’s airtight. Once the process is complete, we’ll supply your with new identification, a new life. You’ll be untraceable. Ghosted.”
I nodded, my decision already made. “I want it staged as a suicide,” I said. “Something clean, believable. No loose ends.”
He handed me a clipboard thick with forms. “Fill these out. We’ll take care of the rest.”
